


Little Things

by SpicedGold



Series: Little Things [3]
Category: Naruto
Genre: Acceptance, Being nice is hard work, Being nice makes Kisame angry, Dealing with illness, Gen, friendship fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-05
Updated: 2017-07-05
Packaged: 2018-11-28 04:39:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,079
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11410404
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SpicedGold/pseuds/SpicedGold
Summary: Why do I do this . . .?Kisame asks himself the same question every time, and sometimes Itachi gives him an answer.





	Little Things

**Author's Note:**

> More friendship fluff about Itachi and Kisame, and the way Kisame tries to deal with Itachi's failing health. This idea spawned the 'Little Things' series.
> 
> This, and 'More Than Enough' started out as the same story before I decided to split them.
> 
> Suggestions for more one-shots are welcomed.
> 
> Thanks for reading  
> SpicedGold

_Why?_ Kisame thought, stamping irritably up the creaky flight of stairs to the tiny, rundown little room he and Itachi were sharing for the night. _Why do I do this?_

The wood nearly buckled under his weight, and he wrested the door open with a vengeance, beyond furious at the world.

Itachi did not move when Kisame stormed into the room, stomping deliberately. Itachi knew that the anger his partner conveyed was on purpose, which made Itachi assume something had happened while Kisame was out that was Itachi’s ‘fault’, despite the fact that the young Uchiha had been lying serenely on his bed the entire time.

“Here,” Kisame snapped, throwing a small brown paper packet at Itachi with annoyance. It bounced on Itachi’s chest, and he finally opened his eyes to inspect it, peering curiously inside and wondering why this little package was making Kisame so irate.

The contents appeared to be various little colourful cubes with sugar coating them.

“They didn’t have any dango,” Kisame seethed. “I got you that instead.”

Ah, Itachi understood now. Kisame was pissed off at himself for ‘caring’. In the past, if the shop had been out of whatever Itachi had requested, that would be it. Kisame would come home empty handed. But lately, he had been going out of his way to find something, some sort of suitable alternative, and he was doing it because he actually cared, and it drove him mad. He was angry at himself for caring about Itachi, for giving a half a damn about the brooding young Uchiha, and even more angry that he was actually doing something about it, when he should have just come back with nothing and told Itachi to deal with it.

“You and your stupid sweet tooth,” Kisame grumbled, shedding his cloak and stomping over to his bed while Itachi sat up comfortably and inspected the little glazed fruit squares.

Itachi never mentioned the fact that Kisame cared. He never let it show that he noticed. But he did send Kisame a shy, genuine smile that the blue shark scoffed at, pointedly looking in the other direction.

Kisame hated the fact that he couldn’t do anything to help Itachi. There was no way he could reverse what was happening to him, and watching his partner fade away before his eyes was hurting more than he would ever admit. So when the opportunity arose to give Itachi a little bit of comfort, a little something to make the agony he knew the Uchiha lived with lift just a little, he found himself _wanting_ to give that comfort. And that angered him beyond anything, because he was ridiculously helpless. Itachi would die, and there was nothing Kisame could do about it.

Nothing would make a difference, and Kisame didn’t know how to deal with that. He didn’t have Itachi’s quiet calm, he didn’t share the Uchiha’s resignation to his fate. He reacted the only way he knew how – blind rage. He wasn’t the type of man to stand by and watch something happen; he wanted to be doing something about it. But there was nothing he could do about Itachi, nothing that would cease that persistent cough that kept him awake at night, nothing that would stop Itachi’s slowly fading strength that made Kisame want to punch something whenever he saw how much muscle tone the kid was losing.

Itachi hid it well, of course. He and Kisame were the only two people that knew about his illness. No one else in the Akatsuki had any idea – at least, Kisame assumed they didn’t. They hadn’t made any concessions to the young ex-Konoha nin, so he figured they didn’t know. And Itachi was an expert at concealing it.

So Kisame vented his rage in the only way he knew how – by aiming it and the little bit of affection he was able to show directly at his ailing partner. He threw Itachi a filthy look, a look that would usually terrify any enemy, but Itachi didn’t flinch under his gaze. He probably couldn’t even see it, Kisame thought irritably, although the distance between them was not much.

Itachi was ignoring Kisame’s quiet, boiling fury in favour of munching his treat, inspecting each little square delicately, and Kisame could just imagine him trying to figure out which fruits were mashed together before he tasted them. His patience was infuriating at times. Kisame wanted to slap him.

The paper bag crinkled again. Then there was the maddening, studious silence before another crinkle.

“I’m never buying you that again,” Kisame snapped, lying down and staring at the ceiling. “You make too much noise.”

There was, predictably, no reply from Itachi, but after a pause there was the crinkle of paper again, and Kisame sat up, huffing, and glared across the room at his partner, who was sitting innocently on crossed legs and holding a fruit square up to the light to squint at it.

And Kisame’s anger deflated in an instant at the blatant reminder of why he had even gone through the effort of finding the Uchiha some inexpensive and annoying-to-listen-to sugary treat. Because Itachi’s days were numbered, and his life so far had been filled with such pain and despair, and he was so gentle, so quiet, so unlike Kisame, that the shark wanted to give Itachi just a little bit of peace before he died. It would be what he deserved; Kisame felt like Itachi never belonged in Akatsuki. He didn’t even belong in the ninja world.

For all his talents and brutal abilities, he was too gentle for the role he had been given. Too peaceful, in his thoughts and in his fighting. Too perfect for this world of horror.

With the days ahead promising to be full of more pain – Itachi pretended it didn’t hurt when he coughed and wheezed during the night, but Kisame knew better, and there was no way vomiting up blood once a week wasn’t painful – Kisame wanted to try to balance that out, and give Itachi the end he deserved.

And he hated that.

He hated Itachi for it, because before the Sharingan user had walked into his life, Kisame had been focused on destruction, on filling other people with terror and pain. He’d relished the kill, he’d lived for the hunt. He had considered no deed too dirty.

Then Itachi showed up, and over the years Kisame’s level of respect for him had grown immensely. And Itachi’s special brand of morals and philosophy had rubbed off on him. He no longer saw a traitor refusing to give information, but rather, with the slight tilt of Itachi’s head and a shifting of his eyes, a man trying desperately to keep his family safe. Bystanders were no longer collateral damage, but rather tragedies occurring in the pursuit of a greater picture, and they should be thought of with respect and their lives acknowledged with a moment of silence. And killing was no longer the only way for a mission to end. Often, so often Kisame was losing count, missions ended without fatalities.

He didn’t know why he’d allowed Itachi to worm his way into his life, his skin, what was left of his heart, but he had, and there was nothing Kisame could do about it now.

He didn’t even know why he was doing anything, it wouldn’t matter to anyone in a few weeks.

He was alerted by a small movement to his side, and turned his head to Itachi, expression morphing into surprise as he fixed his eyes on a slim, pale arm extended towards him with an orange coloured cube dusted with sugar resting on his palm.

Itachi offered the sweet to Kisame wordlessly, dark eyes watching him, but most likely unable to see the changes in his facial expression. Itachi rarely showed gratitude, rarely let Kisame see that he had noticed the little things Kisame was doing to make his life fractionally easier. He knew Kisame didn’t want it acknowledged, and he paid his thanks by ignoring every gesture, as that was what was desired of him.

But sometimes, uncannily always at the right time, he would show some emotion back, something to let Kisame know that it was okay, that even though their time together was coming to an end, it did not mean that Kisame’s actions were unnoticed. He was making a difference.

Kisame stared at Itachi’s outstretched palm, all his rage giving way to an odd, flooding warmth that he did not experience very often. He took the sweet, muttering a thank you under his breath that Itachi may or may not have heard.

Itachi went back to focusing on himself again, the infuriating crinkling of the paper bag settling into its steady rhythm.

Staring at the young man, too young, Kisame was reminded, to be going through this, he felt the warmth spread soothingly throughout his body. That, he supposed, was the answer to the question he had thought whilst storming up the stairs.

He did this because no one else would. Because Itachi used to be loved, used to be adored, and he deserved that much in his final weeks. Because Itachi had no one left, and Kisame was the only person who knew Itachi for who he was; the gentle, genius ninja from Konoha, and not the ruthless clan killer. He did this because Itachi would do the same for him, and Itachi showed him what it was like to have someone at your side you actually cared for and wanted to keep with you.

He watched Itachi, sweets finished, carefully fold the paper bag into a neat square. “Do you want me to buy them again?”

“I would not object,” Itachi replied. He set the bag aside and settled down on the bed, pulling the blankets over himself and huddling down to try to stay warm.

Kisame nodded, even though Itachi was not looking. He stared at the ceiling while the light outside faded, and darkness came over the room. He knew the exact moment Itachi fell asleep, it was marked with the harsh rasp of his breath as his consciousness let go of the need to conceal his condition. And like every night, Kisame waited, because in about five minutes Itachi would wake again with a few rib-cracking coughs, then turn onto his other side to fall asleep again.

Kisame knew that paying attention to these details was only making things worse, because three weeks ago Itachi only woke four times a night. Now, it was eight. And in the mornings, he struggled to wake up properly, struggled to shake the grip of sleep.

So, yes, Kisame knew exactly why he did things for Itachi.

It made him feel better. It made him feel like he was helping. He didn’t want to be helpless, but this was a challenge in life that he could not overcome with brute strength. This took a different kind of strength, strength from within, strength Kisame did not have.

But Itachi, hand pressed to his mouth to stifle the sounds of illness, had it in abundance. He would meet his fate with the same grace and acceptance he met everything else in life, and Kisame would be at his side, a hulking, murderous, angry beast thwarted by Itachi’s ill health and forever cursing the sick god who could have brought this down on the Uchiha.

Because, really, Itachi had always been stronger than Kisame, in almost every way. And the fact that that was changing was something Kisame couldn’t accept. He was angry at the world, at Itachi, at the young ninja’s immune system that had screwed up somewhere, and now one of the greatest warriors the world had ever seen was going to fall to illness.

_Why?_ Kisame thought again, listening to Itachi roll over, coughing twice. _Why are we doing this?_

He stared across the room at Itachi’s bed. Compared to him, Itachi was just a little thing. A little thing, coughing and spewing blood and yet so at peace with the whole world. A little thing that had changed the way Kisame saw the world, changed the way he saw his own comrades.

He glared at the folded paper packet next to Itachi’s bed, still annoyed at himself about it. Such a small gesture shouldn’t irritate him to this degree. It had, though, and he knew it always would.

Sometimes, the little things in life had the most impact.


End file.
